


The name's Bond. James Bond.

by ElizabethDurham



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Humor, I Love Bond, Parody, but i still love bond!, but the impracticalities kill me, i honestly don't know what i'm doing, so this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethDurham/pseuds/ElizabethDurham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Question,”<br/>	“Yes?”<br/>	“What exactly is the point of a car chase?”<br/>	“To catch the other person,” Bond answered, as to a child.<br/>	“No,” Q raised a finger, “I mean, you’re both in fast cars, one person obviously got a head start, it’s nigh on impossible to hit a moving target from a moving target, and we already know all your assailants are spectacularly bad shots, so what’s the point precisely?”<br/>	“What’s the point of an imploding batman figurine?” </p>
<p>Crack. Pure, unedited, crack. I am a huge fan of the whole James Bond movie/book franchise, but sometimes the impossibility rankles a bit. So, this happened. I'm sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The name's Bond. James Bond.

“The name’s Bond. James Bond,” he said, smiling like the air-brushed toothpaste models one saw on the telly. The mark raised an eyebrow,  
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”   
A shrug,  
“People usually are.”

Ten hours later, she was dead. Not that anyone cared; just as a butcher soon gets used to the sight of red, bleeding meat, an agent is soon used to the sight of copious amounts of blood. And there was always blood, even when it seemed there shouldn’t be. Even when it wasn’t physically possible for there to be so much blood. If MI-6 was good at anything, it was defying physics.   
In fact, Qwerty – usually simply called Q, as his full name was something of a mouthful, and it wouldn’t do for him to be confused with the many conquests of his agents – thought, going back over his folder of ongoing projects (page one: The poisonous earring just in case an agent found themselves in a position to head-butt an enemy. Page two: the rocket-propelled knife in case the target’s gun didn’t jam, and something besides a hand-to-hand grapple ensued. Page three: the cloak of invisibility whenever they came up against an enemy that was inclined to notice an agent shooting one of their video cameras into white fuzz. Pages four, five, six, seven, eight……..twenty: A list of all the women their field agents had slept with during the past seventy-two hours, in case of complications) perhaps it was time he got started on one of the C4-packed batman figurines the triple-A agents had been asking for. In case practicality ever got a break.   
“Q,”   
“If you have any of the ridiculously expensive equipment I sent you out with, by all means set it on my desk. If not, do please go somewhere else,” Q muttered, without looking up.”  
Bond plunked down the latter half of his laser-sighted, waterproof, wind gauge mounted, e-mail enabled, matt-black rifle.   
Q held out a hand, still flipping through files,  
“The other half?”  
“There was a dragon…” Bond muttered vaguely, “You know how common those are in Saudi Arabia.”  
Q blinked. He trailed a single finger across the track pad of his computer, turning the computer on, opening the MI-6 database, typing in his password, skipping to Bond’s last mission file, and scrolling halfway down the screen with that single touch.   
“Saudi Arabia?” he asked, glancing at the details, “Your mission was in Greece, tracking down a preposterously attractive double-agent with the key to apocalyptic destruction in her brassiere.”  
“I know,” Bond tossed the mangled remains of a radio COM on the desk as well, “seems to happen rather often.”  
“Saudi Arabia?”  
“Couldn’t have a gunfight in the Coliseum, could we?”  
Q considered. Then, nodded,  
“Thank you, 007 for your and….?”  
“Pearl Emerald.”  
“Pearl Emerald. Pearl Emerald’s consideration of nation treasures and culture.”  
Bond laughed, as though he had never heard anything funnier,  
“Saudi Arabia had better beaches, and Pearl and I decided a gunfight is best served somewhere where bathing suits are acceptable attire.”  
The radio Bond set on the desk was sparking feebly, so Q abandoned his plans for a moment to attend to the death throes of a gadget not only impossibly in its functions, but a fortune to replace, ignoring Bond in favor of his screwdrivers and magnetic bolts.   
“As you like,” He murmured, still not looking at the agent, “I looked in on your medical evaluation, by the way.”  
“And?” Bond’s voice was smug.   
“Rubbish.”  
“I’m offended.”  
“Shot in the shoulder, Bond? As if. I’ve seen men faint from less, and there you were running about in your tailored suit, which, while we’re on the subject, is not physically able to stretch as far as yours seems to do as you perform your dastardly stunts of gynmastical prowess. So what was it this time, fake blood or did someone manage to switch your targets rifle with a paintball gun again?”  
Bond didn’t answer immediately, tugging the half-dismantled radio from Q’s grip and turning it over in his hands thoughtfully.  
“Are you pathologically unable to accept that my missions are as dangerous as they are?”  
Q blinked owlishly up at the man, the first time he’d looked at Bond all afternoon,  
“Well, let’s compare you and I, shall we?” he began, “I am pathologically unable to accept the impossible. You are pathologically unable to feel emotion, act with any semblance of normality, resist an attractive girl, stay in the same part of the world for an extended stretch of time, shoot your mark before the third attempt, drive slowly, or get shot. Does that about cover it?”  
“Do you ever read my mission files?” Bond asked incredulously. Q snorted,  
“How do you think all MI-6 got to pegging you as a nymphomaniac?”  
Bond smirked. Q raised a warning hand,  
“I don’t want to hear it, Bond. Thank you for the broken radio and the half-eaten gun. Go find yourself a brainless maiden to seduce, would you?”  
“Sounds good to me,” one of the interns whispered as they passed. Q rolled his eyes,   
“Get out Bond, you have a report to write.”  
“You know my skill set extends to drinking myself under the table and avoiding suspiciously mis-aimed shots” Bond pointed out, amused, “be a dear and type it for me, would you?”  
Q raised an eyebrow, swirling around in his swivel chair and returning to his notes. Smoke bomb with personalized smoke color. A car – the most expensive, the fastest, because really, what was the point in getting a car with an average lifespan of one mission if it wasn’t worth a teensy fortune – outfitted with a wardrobe of suits, in various shades ranging from dinner-party grey to daytime charcoal.   
“Despite popular belief, Bond, Q-branch does actually exist for something besides creating your homicidal toys.”  
“And what would that be?”  
Q shifted uncomfortably,  
“Security,” he mumbled noncommittally. Bond snorted,   
“Security my ass. Since when have any of my marks actually been smart enough to use a gun, let alone hacking software? Not to mention M gives us everything in paper copies, in nice, official folders; you should be keeping an eye on the garbage men more than your precious servers.”  
“I think I resent your implication, Bond,” Q answered primly, “insulting your quartermaster is not really the best rout to borrowing his typing skills.”  
A shrug from Bond, as the ridiculously impractically tailored suit rode across his shoulders,  
“As you like. No one actually cares about reports here anyways. I’ll turn in Moneypenny’s cupcake recipe instead, how does that sound?”  
Q tried his best to ignore the infuriating agent, but, as was the way with the world it seemed, he got his way in the end. With a little moan to convey his annoyance, Q scooped up his laptop, settled cross-legged in his chair with the computer balanced on his knees, and began typing.   
“M is going to kill me for this,” he muttered under his breath. Bond laughed,  
“M doesn’t care what I do as long as I bring down the mark in a spectacular enough fashion.”  
“To my eternal shame, that appears to be so. Now, start talking, Bond. You’ve got a hapless intern to seduce and I have an exploding figurine to create.”  
“Sounds wonderful. Can I carry it about in my pocket?”  
“You carried that ridiculous pen around with you, even though I’m not entirely sure you can write. Now, if we’re done wasting time….?”  
“Touchy,” Bond muttered. He settled himself on top of Q’s desk, like an overgrown schoolboy kicking his heels after class. An apt comparison, Q thought wryly, given the man’s psychotic love of guns and knives. Kid in a candy shop came to mind when Q let him into the armory.   
“Where should I start?”   
Q gave him a look,  
“The beginning might be helpful, Bond. Try for some semblance of logic in the string of unfortunate or coincidentally timed events you call missions.”  
“Someone’s in a bad mood today.”   
“I wonder why,” Q muttered, typing out at the top of the page:  
JAMES BOND MISSION FILES: PEARL EMERALD – GREECE. TERMINATION SUCCESSFUL. APOCOLYPSE AVERTED. DETAILS FOLLOW BELOW.   
{My plane to Athens touched down just after nightfall. The plane’s engines and the wind off the tarmac whipped at my coat –}   
“Bond, enough of your dramatics. No one actually boards planes from the tarmac anymore.”  
“Do you want to hear what happened or not?”  
{As I was saying, I was on the tarmac, and from there a taxi driver dressed all in black picked me up from the airport. Halfway down the street, he reached over and stuck a tranquilizer in my neck, rendering me – }  
“Bond – “  
“Are you going to interrupt every sentence?”  
“Apparently. How the bloody hell does someone driving a taxi plunge a hypodermic needle into your neck while driving? Were you drunk?”  
“No! Just…. well, perhaps a little.”  
Q rolled his eyes with a long-suffering groan,  
“I do not have the fingers to count how many times you should have been dead by now.”  
“And there you were criticizing me about wasting time.”  
{Rendering me incapable of fighting back as he took me to Ms. Emerald’s house.}   
“Of course she isn’t married,” Q muttered, but kept typing.  
{Ms. Emerald greeted me cordially at the door of her Victorian-style mansion, before taking me into a wood-paneled study where she proceeded to wave the plans for the missiles under my half-conscious nose, telling me she was going to use them to destroy all the bloody capitalists.}  
“For god’s sake, Bond, this isn’t the cold war!”  
“I don’t script the villains, Q. take it up with her.”  
{I then proceeded to mumble, still not entirely conscious, that at least we weren’t all bloody communists – }  
“You do, however, script yourself,” Q pointed out, looking up from the computer with a petulant frown, “and the Russians aren’t all communists!”  
“Tell that to her. And how do you know she’s Russian?”  
The rolled eyes again,  
“They’re all Russian.”  
{To continue. I said at least we aren’t all bloody communists; she took offense, and locked me in a handily available titanium cell she had built for some strange reason a few months prior. There, I used the exploding eraser you gave me, as they had neglected to search my person,}  
“Russians and amateurs, all of them.”  
“And communists. Don’t forget communists.”  
{So freed, I picked up the rather attractive Cuban fashion model lurking outside my door, who was also quiet handy with a knife,}  
“Good with a knife? Are all your girls good with knives?”  
“Guns. And airplanes. I loose track.”  
“Only you would find a flock of blond female pilots in the middle of a robbery scheme.”  
{Anyways, from there, we proceeded to, with a number of inexplicably large explosions setting the tempo, incapacitate the remaining guards. Mercifully, Ms. Emerald was not alerted. The plans were lying out on her desk, with the title Top Secret written across the front in large, red letters. With this as proof of its authenticity, and assuming she had made no more copies, I grabbed the plans and left with my Cuban fashion model, who inexplicably ended up shot in the arm near the end of our dash for freedom. }  
“They all end up shot,” Q pointed out, “tell me, Bond, should I be worried for any female agents I send out with you?”  
“After this long, I don’t really see the point.”  
{After that, it was simply a matter of stealing a 200,000-pound car, and driving away at high speeds, where a car chase ensued – }  
“Question,”  
“Yes?”  
“What exactly is the point of a car chase?”  
“To catch the other person,” Bond answered, as to a child.  
“No,” Q raised a finger, “I mean, you’re both in fast cars, one person obviously got a head start, it’s nigh on impossible to hit a moving target from a moving target, and we already know all your assailants are spectacularly bad shots, so what’s the point precisely?”  
“What’s the point of an imploding batman figurine?” Bond burst out angrily. Q opened his mouth, but Bond ploughed on before he could get a word in,  
{As I said, a car chase ensued, ending in my capture and the Cuban model’s capture, and probable death; I have no doubt she bled out before they released her. not that I know anything about that. I was brought back to Pea – Ms. Emerald’s house, where she took the plans again, laughing, then attempted to seduce me.}  
“And you resisted?” Q asked with a raised eyebrow. Bond snorted,  
“What kind of man do you think I am?”  
{After sleeping together, I proceeded to knock her unconscious, steal the plans, blow up the building with some conveniently placed flour sacks – }  
“Flour?”  
“The cook seemed to be quite fond of the stuff.”  
“I don’t know why I ask anymore.”  
“Do you want me to finish, or not?”  
{- Which exploded in a great fireball, from which I walked away, unscathed, while the building burned impossibly close behind me. The rest, you know. }  
Q skimmed through the report he’d just transcribed, shaking his head unbelievingly,  
“If I hadn’t already given M a dozen like it, I’d be tempted to refuse him this one. “  
“Do what you like,” Bond shrugged, levering himself off the desk and sauntering towards the door, “it’s not as though there are any rules in this game, are there?”   
He leaned impossibly closer, breath ghosting over Q’s ear lobe.  
Q finished typing before he dared turn around, frowning at the screen as he sent it off to M.   
“Are you going to hang about all day, 007?” he asked a bit huffily. Bond grinned.  
“Sleep with me?” he asked suddenly. Q stopped in his tracks, staring at Bond incredulously, owlish eyes like saucers in their surprise,  
“Excuse me?”  
“You heard me. It’s not like anyone refuses me, now do they?”  
“If I didn’t know it was true I’d cite you as a bloody narcissist,” Q muttered.  
“I am a bloody narcissist,” 007 replied promptly, then, “you should still sleep with me.”  
“If I say yes will you go away?” Q asked through gritted teeth. Bond considered, then nodded, rising in on smooth motion and totting back a few steps.   
“I’ll pick you up at seven, then?”  
“Go away, Bond,” Q called, swiveling around so he was facing away from the improbably attractive agent He settled back in to work, eyes glued to his computer screen once more, resolutely denying that it was Bond’s quiet chuckle playing around his head over and over and over again.


End file.
